


My Swan, My Love

by elstaplador



Category: Lebedínoye Ózero | Swan Lake
Genre: Coming of Age, F/F, First Person, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/elstaplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a proud bird, a fierce bird, and she frightened me as much as she pleased me. 'You are mine,' I whispered to her, and it was like owning the wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Swan, My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrisB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrisB/gifts).



When I was a tiny little girl, almost as soon as I could walk, I took to tottering down to the lake and, standing ankle-deep in the cool water, gazing at my own reflection.

It was poor company, but, once in a while, when I wiggled my toes in the right way, a ripple would pass across its face, and I could almost fancy it smiled.

  


When I was a little older and had tired of such an uncommunicative companion, I said to my father, 'I want a swan.'

He was a great man for swans, was my father. Every morning a great flock of them would swoop down across the lake, skimming the surface with their huge white wings, landing with a spattering flurry, and he would count them in. He knew every one of them by the pattern on its beak, and he watched them for hours at a time.

'I want a swan,' I said. 'I want a swan of my very own.'

My father rarely denied me anything, for it was less trouble to grant my wishes than to refuse them. Now, he merely said, 'No one owns a swan, you know.'

But I knew he lied, for every swan that came to the lake was his. And, seeing me still standing at the door of his study, he sighed, and said, 'Very well. The next swan is yours.'

  


She did not come the next day, nor the day after. Still, I was content to wait, knowing that my father was, for all his faults, a man of his word. A week passed, and two weeks and still I waited for the swan that would be mine.

  


At last, as the year drew on into winter, when the water froze at the fringe of the lake, and the wind howled through the branches of the willow trees, she came. O, she was a beauty! Her plumage so clean, her beak so bright! She was the loveliest, and, more than that – there were hundreds of swans on the lake, but she was mine.

My father said little, but I could see how pleased he was, that I had asked of him something that he could give me, and that it pleased me. Now I sat out with him at the water's edge, oblivious to the cold, and we watched the swans – or, rather, he watched his swans, and I watched mine.

She was a proud bird, a fierce bird, and she frightened me as much as she pleased me. 'You are mine,' I whispered to her, and it was like owning the wind. In time she came to trust me, or, at least, to suffer me to stroke her crisp feathers, the arch of her neck, the curve of her wing. And I told myself that she was mine.

  


It was two years later, or perhaps three, that I was polishing a silver spoon and, turning it over and over, saw my face change, and knew that I was growing up. Driven by an impulse I cannot name even now, I dropped the spoon, I dropped the cloth, and ran out to the lake. I waded in until the water lapped about my knees. I called for her to come to me, called and called until my voice was hoarse and the dusk was falling. And then, as I was about to turn away, angry and cold and lonely, she came to me.

She glided down towards me, wings beating, throwing spray around her, and as she drew nearer, I saw that she was a woman, and found that somehow I was not surprised. Had I not always known? She was my swan, my love, bound to come to me at the sound of my voice; how could I not have known? Indeed, had I not grown to look like her?

She looked at me, and she said nothing, but waded closer to me.

'My swan,' I said. 'My love.' And I moved her dripping black hair back from her cheek, and I kissed her lips.

'Set me free,' she said to me.

'I cannot,' I said, 'for I will have nothing, and you are mine.'

She turned from me and disappeared into the dark water of the lake.

  


The next night, as the moon rose, I went to the lake, and I called her. She came to me straight away, and in the moonlight she was lovelier than she had ever been as a swan. The water dripped from her body, and I knew I could never let her go.

'Set me free,' she said to me.

'Who are you?' I said.

'I have almost forgotten,' she said. 'Once I was a princess; once I loved and was loved. But you wanted me, and so I am a swan.'

'You are my swan,' I said, and kissed her.

She pulled me down into the water with her, but I am a magician's daughter, and we do not drown so easily. All the same, I was hers from that moment; I was hers more than she was mine, and that's more dangerous.

  


He came, and he loved her. No: he wanted her. I told her so, with tears and screaming: I knew her, she was my swan, and I knew about wanting her. She couldn't see it; all she could think of was being a woman again.

'You would do better as a swan,' I said to her. 'The whole world would be yours.'

'Only until you called me back,' she said.

'He wouldn't let you be free, any more than I would,' I told her. 'He wants you the same way that I do. You would be his, day and night.'

But she couldn't see it, and it was only then that I began to hate her, because I saw that I could not keep her.

  


My father, seeing my heart breaking by inches, and yet not understanding, sent me to the palace. It seemed the best I could do, so I went. For, if I could not have her whom I truly wanted, I would surely take that which she wanted from her. And indeed, when Siegfried whirled me fast around the ballroom, I caught sight of my own face in the long mirrors, and could almost imagine it was hers, that I danced with her whom I loved.

And once I heard something like wings beating at the great window; but when I turned, I saw only myself, reflected in the glass with the bright room behind me.

  


He wanted her; I wanted her, and she wanted to be free. He took her away, and I am here waiting. All the swans come back to the lake, sooner or later. I wait for her, and, when she comes, I will set her free. My father is dead now; his arts hold no joy for me. Only this: the swan-magician's daughter can herself become a swan.

She will come back, my love, my swan, seeking the freedom she knew when she flew over the forests on great white wings; and I will grant her that, at least.

And I will fly with her.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My Swan, My Love by estaplador [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564445) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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